A Promise of Fireflies

by Susan Haught

  “What dif does that make?”

  “Could be turquoise or pink. Or KFC. You know, finger-lickin’ good?”

  Her cheeks burned red hot. “You’re hilarious, but I won’t need them,” Ryleigh said, pushing the condoms back at her as if they were contagious, “but if I ever do, I certainly hope I’m not stretching one over a fried chicken leg.”

  “I don’t have any chicken legs handy.” Nat laughed and tucked them into Ryleigh’s purse. “But I do know where there’s a cucumber.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  DRIVING THE MOUNTAINOUS curves into Estes Park in the BMW X5 was the ultimate, but dwarfed in comparison when Ryleigh spied the conspicuous spire of the Stanley Hotel rising against the scabrous mountain backdrop. Nestled into the Rocky Mountain foothills, the hotel stood stark white against the gray mountains, its brick-red roof a bloody contrast to the evergreens.

  Her spine tingled. “This is crazy cool,” she muttered, recalling the Overlook Hotel from Stephen King’s The Shining. And wasn’t the second film shot there? The image shrank in the rearview mirror and she craned her neck for one last peek. “I must see this place close up.”

  As the miles passed, the snow deepened and the evergreens thickened. The majestic snow-capped peaks of the Rockies loomed around her, as if hand-painted against a cloud-studded blue canvas sky.

  Ryleigh turned onto a narrow, snow-packed road, pulled over, and engaged the four-wheel drive. She wiped her palms on her jeans, cinched her fingers around the steering wheel, and then drove cautiously along the forest road.

  Douglas fir, blue spruce and groves of leafless aspen draped the road in shadow. The first sight of the resort breached the palisade of trees, and for the first time since she left the asphalt, she allowed herself to relax. A wooden bridge crossed the rapids of Fall River and into a valley of provincial-style log cabins and one massive log-sided building she presumed to be the lobby. She pulled up and parked, wrapped her scarf around her neck, and stepped into the brisk mountain air. The river rippled to the energetic squeals of children caught in the crossfire of a snowball fight.

  Ryleigh slipped, caught her balance, and then walked cautiously to the entrance. A rustic Whisper of the Pines sign hung over the entrance and images of the surrounding valley were carved into heavy oak doors. Inside, massive log beams laced themselves across a high cathedral ceiling, and windows rose floor to ceiling on one side.

  “Welcome to Whisper of the Pines Resort,” a boisterous voice rang out. “Your winter wonderland at the base of the Rockies.”

  Startled away from the view, Ryleigh turned. The woman’s eyes sparkled amid an aged face that had seen too much sun over the years. “I’m Rose, your hostess for the weekend. What can I help you with today?”

  Ryleigh recognized the name and smiled back. “Hello, Rose. I’m Ryleigh Collins,” she said, pushing a wayward strand of hair behind an ear.

  “Of course you are!” Rose extended a pair of robust arms and swallowed Ryleigh in a welcoming hug. “Natalie told me all about you. Welcome.”

  “She conned me into taking her place.”

  “We’re thrilled to have you,” she said, patting Ryleigh’s hands enthusiastically, “and you’ll be delighted you came.”

  “This place is gorgeous.”

  “It is, indeed. The new owners have made some marvelous improvements. It’s amazing what the Cavanaughs—what Logan, I should say, does with his resorts. It’s a Cinderella story—from ordinary to exquisite. He has quite an instinct. A Midas touch if you will.”

  “A lot like Nat and Mitch.”

  Rose threw her arms in the air. “Indeed they are, and now they’re expanding. It’s been her dream since we were in college.” Rose chuckled. “Oh goodness, don’t look so stunned. I’m a bit old, but better late than never they say.” She spun around, glancing through the clusters of people. “Mr. Cavanaugh—the owner—is here somewhere. You must meet him.” She grabbed Ryleigh by the hand. “Come. Let’s get you checked in. Natalie reserved the best cabin for you.”

  “Of course she did.” Ryleigh relaxed into a bright smile, the stress melting into the surroundings. Even the resort’s name boasted of tranquility. “She’s extremely generous. I wish I could reciprocate somehow.”

  “This is a tremendous favor you’re doing for her,” she said, wagging a finger back and forth. “Mr. Cavanaugh would have been extremely disappointed had she canceled. He feels the spa services are a much needed addition.” She handed Ryleigh the keycard to cabin three. “Your visit is extremely important.”

  “Okay, then. I’ll do my best. When would be a good time to show me the proposals?”

  Rose glanced at the clock. “It’s two now. What do you say after dinner? Around six?”

  “Perfect.” Ryleigh tilted her head slightly to one side. “Do you mind if I take in the view for a few minutes?”

  “By all means.” Rose beamed. “There’s a wonderful Reading Room left of the lobby. You’ll love it.” She winked. “I understand you’re a writer.”

  A shy smile curled the corners of her mouth. “That’s a matter of opinion, but thank you, Rose.” To dispute the notion Natalie had planted in Rose’s head seemed futile. After this weekend she would probably never see Rose again. It seemed silly to refute it.

  Ryleigh thanked her and glanced around the lobby, encased in glass and in the shape of the bow of a ship. The view wrapped itself around her. She drew a deep breath and followed her curious fascination to the Reading Room.

  Ryleigh tossed her purse and coat on a leather chair, scanned the room and then paused at the section devoted to poetry. She breathed in the musty fragrance of newsprint and ink, the essence of familiarity. The essence of heaven. She ran her fingers along the spines and hesitated where the ‘F’s should be.

  “Looking for a particular poet?”

  “Crap.” Ryleigh clutched her neck and turned abruptly. “You scared me.”

  A rather tall man with a black cashmere scarf hung loosely over broad shoulders stood at the entrance to the Reading Room stomping snow from his Sorels. Ryleigh raised an eyebrow, thankful a heavy throw rug caught the dribbles of mushy snow. “I’m sorry,” he said and tucked wet leather gloves into his coat pockets. A coy smile erupted across an angular jaw. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I was curious if I should see to adding another author.”

  She shrugged. “I favor Robert Frost’s poetry, but I didn’t see any of his.”

  “The collection isn’t quite complete. Frost isn’t among us.”

  “Not since the sixties, anyway.” Heat prickled her cheeks as his mouth curled into a penetrating half-smile. “I enjoy his simplistic style,” she said, wishing she could take back the silly remark. “But there’s plenty to leaf through.”

  “Emily Dickinson…” he said with an awkward pause, as if he hadn’t meant to say the name. “I find her work intriguing.”

  The hesitation caused her to look away. “I think I know what you mean.” Ryleigh dragged her hand along the spines of Cummings, past Eliot and stopped at Stevenson. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I need to find my cabin. I have a date at six.”

  “You don’t want to be late. Which cabin are you looking for?” He raised a hand. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be intrusive, but each of the cabins has its own history or bits of trivia and some have regular visitors. The wildlife in the Rockies is extraordinary.”

  “So, you work here?” she asked, noting the way his consummate smile accentuated perfectly matched dimples.

  The man chuckled, his voice deep and rich. “You could say that.”

  Logan Cavanaugh shook his head to erase the picture from his mind. He’d been curious when one of his guests had entered the Reading Room, anxious to see if his mini library would lure them when the infinite winter playground of the Rocky Mountains lay just beyond the doors.

  His father had been against the addition of the room, arguing it was a waste of resources. Contrary to his father’s objections, he had the
contractors add it anyway.

  From across the room, he’d observed the woman, her enthusiasm for books and poetry apparent as she’d browsed the shelves. And he couldn’t help but notice her shy smile and the generous dimple it created in one cheek. The left. Up close, her green eyes sparkled in the firelight and her cheeks had blossomed to a warm shade of rose.

  He hadn’t meant to stare.

  And he surely hadn’t looked at a woman that way, or in any way, in more than three years.

  As a pale winter sun sank below the craggy peaks of the Continental Divide, Logan pulled to the stop sign, turned onto the asphalt and drove toward town. He parked the Range Rover and walked the few blocks to the Estes Park Book Shop.

  The sweet bouquet of lavender on Laurie’s skin and her reserved smile were an integral part of him, and the mere thought of another woman brought about deep feelings of hypocrisy and betrayal. Her death had a way of sneaking past his rational side, even now. Logan’s heart thundered inside his chest as if he had committed a sin, the desire to find a book for a woman he didn’t know waging war with a deep-seated tug of guilt.

  He didn’t even know her name.

  Assuming the book he wanted was one few people would ask for, he bypassed the shelves and went straight to customer service. He chose Robert Frost, The Collected Poems, Complete and Unabridged—hardback. He would be certain to have Frost’s entire collection, insisting it arrive overnight no matter what the cost.

  Logan thanked the cashier and stepped outside. The frigid air cooled the nervous perspiration on his brow and he picked up his pace, desperate to leave the nefarious act of betrayal in his wake.

  The hours flew by as Ryleigh settled into her cabin, and taking a last look in the mirror, left to find the dining room. Snow crunched under her boots. Encased entirely in glass, the dining room branched off the lobby and embraced the jagged outline of the Rockies. The delicate aromas of sautéed mushrooms and roasted garlic wafted over the tempting whispers of ripe strawberries and fresh cream. Ryleigh was escorted to her table and served a carefully personalized full-course meal.

  Familiar with a good entrée and already spoiled by the Cavanaughs’ exquisite taste in décor and food, future stays at the Days Inn would be nothing short of mundane.

  Rose placed a hand on Ryleigh’s shoulder and leaned in. “What do you think of your first meal at Whisper of the Pines, Ms. Collins?” She reached for a chair and sat across from her.

  “A rare treat,” Ryleigh said, placing her napkin alongside a square Mikasa china plate. “The cedar-plank salmon was seasoned to perfection and the citrus salad a superb blend of sweet and zesty flavors. And there’s nothing to compare to fresh roasted vegetables in the middle of winter. Fresh asparagus this time of year is unheard of.” She shook her head. “But the caramelized crème brûlée was to die for.”

  Rose beamed. “We have an extraordinary chef. Mr. Cavanaugh’s choice, of course. And I see you know something about good food.”

  “A little.” Ryleigh shrugged. “I’m impressed, and I’m dying to see what you have in store for the spa.”

  “It doesn’t have the Tuscany theme Nat loves so much, but I have a feeling she will be pleased—on your recommendation, of course.”

  “I doubt there’ll be a problem.”

  “If you’re ready, I’ll give you the full tour.” The women rose and wove their way through the dining room. “Afterward, I’ve got to get home and help my husband bring in firewood. There’s a storm coming. He’s disabled and can’t stack it himself.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” Rose shook her head. “We manage.”

  “There’s a storm coming?”

  “So they say. The clouds are building along the Divide. Isn’t supposed to snow much, but things can change quickly along this fickle river valley. A storm can dump three times as much snow here as in town. It’s odd, but it happens.”

  “Is it supposed to last long?”

  “Don’t be alarmed. It’s been such a mild winter so far. Probably be nothing more than a cookie-duster. Besides, weathermen are rarely right.” Rose dismissed the statement with a wave of her hands, and then took Ryleigh’s arm. “Look there,” she whispered, “along the river.” Rose pointed out the window. “You’ll want to take in a sleigh ride. If the weather turns bad, Mr. Cavanaugh will have the horses put up for the duration of the storm.”

  Smiling guests bundled against the cold climbed into the horse-drawn sleigh. Old-fashioned lampposts bordered the winding path, diffused light radiating from them like a strand of pearls shimmering in the wake of incandescent moonlight. “Reminds me of a Thomas Kinkade painting,” Ryleigh said under her breath, “and fairy tales.” She turned to Rose. “What doesn’t this place have?”

  “Not much. Except a spa. And that’s why you’re here. If his resorts lack anything, Mr. Cavanaugh will see to acquiring it. I’ve never seen anything like it in this business, and I’ve managed a few resorts over the years.” Rose leaned in closer to Ryleigh. “He’s eligible, you know,” she mused. “A bit on the solemn side but oh, goodness,” she said, her hands clutching at her heart, “the man is as divine as the crème brûlée—a rare, sweet treat.” Her face turned pink. “He’s much too young for me and he is my boss—but you, my dear…”

  “And you’re married.”

  “That too,” she said with a wink.

  A prickle of warmth rose in Ryleigh’s cheeks. “I’m here for the solitude and to get some work done. Nothing more.”

  Rose patted her arm. “Whatever you do during your stay will be splendid, I assure you.”

  Rose’s enthusiasm bubbled at each point of the proposed spa facility. She fussed over the business proposals and latest asset and expenditure spreadsheets. Ryleigh jotted notes, leaving the business analysis to the Burstyns, but assured the astute woman there would be no question she’d give her blessing. She had already fallen in love with the quaint winter wonderland.

  With a firm grip on the railing, Ryleigh waved to Rose and descended the lobby steps. A soft nicker echoed through the night stillness. Delighted they were still making rounds, she headed for the sleigh hoping to catch a ride.

  “Excuse me,” she said, rubbing gloved hands together. “Am I too late?” Her breath puffed ahead of her in smoky clouds. The driver turned. A second man removed packed snow from the horse’s hoof.

  “No, ma’am.” The driver tipped a black felt cowboy hat. “Which cabin?”

  “Three, please.”

  The other man stood and stroked the big, black horse’s nose. Ryleigh smiled at the familiar face. “I guess you know which cabin I’m in now.”

  “That I do,” he said, studying her. “Three is special.”

  “Why is that?”

  “When you wake in the morning, look for the large boulder across the river from your deck. You’re likely to see Whistler, our resident bobcat. Cabin Three is named The Whistler, in her honor.” He adjusted the horse’s harness and then patted him on his withers. The horse chuffed and a fog of breath swirled around the tall man. He chuckled and patted the horse again.

  “Why do you call her Whistler?”

  “Whistle a tune to her,” he said and spread a wool blanket across one of the sleigh’s seats. “The sound seems to fascinate her, but she’s skittish, so keep it soft. Any loud noise and she’ll bolt.” He offered his hand. “Watch your step.” A large leather-gloved hand, firm and steady, grasped hers and assisted her into the seat. “I’d like to ride along, if you don’t mind.”

  Not really a question, the statement puzzled her. Without offering an answer, she zipped the collar of her coat against the cold night air and cinched her scarf.

  “I need to settle the horses for the night, and the barn is across the footbridge just beyond your cabin.”

  “Oh.” The tension in her legs eased with the perfectly rational explanation.

  He took a seat across from her, broad shoulders and dark hair dusted with snow. He nodded to th
e driver, who clicked his tongue and flipped the reins. Silver bells around the horse’s necks jingled as they moved forward, their jet-black outline mere silhouettes in the soft light.

  “The horses are beautiful. And so big. What kind are they? There’s a footbridge?”

  The man settled his arm over the back of the seat. “The horses are Percherons, to answer your first question. Draft horses. Windsor’s on the right,” he said, nodding in the horse’s direction, “Apollo the left. Originally bred in France to carry knights into battle. They had to be quite substantial to transport the weight of a fully armored knight. In today’s world, Percherons are bred by the Amish for plowing fields and pulling sleighs and carriages. There’s not much call for knights in shining armor these days.”

  “You’re not a woman.” An awkward smile crept across her face, and she bit her lip in response to the silly remark she desperately wanted to take back.

  “If you’re inclined to require the services of a knight,” he chuckled, “I’m afraid you’re out of luck, shining armor or not. And yes, a footbridge crosses the river to answer your second question. Between cabins three and four.”

  The horses slowed, and then came to a stop outside cabin number three. Logan stepped from the sleigh and offered his hand, the strength of his grasp assurance she wouldn’t fall. He reaffirmed her confidence by taking her waist, so close his musky scent overpowered the pines. Snowflakes as big as nickels had begun to fall.

  “Good night, Miss…I’m sorry, but you haven’t told me your name.”

  “You’re right.” She grasped her collar tightly. “I haven’t.” Snow rested quietly on her shoulders and tickled her lashes. “Nor have you offered yours.” Ryleigh tilted her head shyly. “Good night, then, and thank you for the ride.”

  Ryleigh waved, privately noting the kindness behind the deep brown eyes of the man who seemed to be wherever she was. Gazing back at the winter wonderland, she couldn’t help but wonder at the remote possibility of the existence of fairy tales.